Alibi Creek Page 8

  “Exactly. Goes right along with every other piece of shit in this town. I promise you, within two days someone will think they’ve lucked out on the bargain of a lifetime.”

  “Trouble with bargains is, there’s always a reason. And whoever figures out the reason for this one will be coming after you. And where will you be? Here. I don’t want trouble.”

  “Jeez, talk about putting a downspin on a venture. There’s nothin’ wrong with that trailer. Danielle’s been living in it for months. Toilet flushes. Thermostat kicks on. Water runs in the taps. A country palace, man!”

  Art rested both hands on the bar and leaned forward.

  N.O.

  At the motel, he found Danielle turning a swivel chair to the right and left with her big toe, reading a fashion magazine.

  “Listen, darlin’,” he said, pushing two twenties with two fingers across the counter. “Plans for the trailer haven’t quite solidified yet. I want you to be comfortable tonight, so book yourself a room.” She kept her head lowered and raised her eyes without closing the magazine. He got the message—a creep was ruining her day spewing a load of bullshit. He understood without a doubt that number 16 would be hers alone, no visitors, no guests, and no roommates.

  “I’ll stay in the trailer,” he said.

  What to do with the damned thing. Driving out Forest Road 47 in search of an out-of-the-way spot with easy access to stash it, clouds popped up over the mesa in puffy, puppy-like formations. Woof. Here comes an elephant. Galoomp. Galoomp. Man, don’t let it rain. There ain’t one thing in life guaranteed, but whoever directs the weather, let that sun break through for the next few days. Let it shine and shine and shine, elevate the spirits, make the world sparkle!

  The road climbed and leveled out high above the valley. He got out to take a leak, wilderness around and below; in the distance the two round hills on Plank’s place and the parallel tree lines along the creek, their gold leaves beginning to fade from brilliant to bronze. He opened the glove box and took out the quitclaim deed and held it over his heart, ran his tongue over his lips and kissed it. Smack. Tomorrow evening Keith Lampert would arrive. The following morning they’d meet, come up here and sniff the air, bask in the silence, spot some wildlife, sigh with the splendor of the vista and descend to where the big, blazing cottonwood marked Ross Plank’s homestead, right there.

  15

  YOU SAID HE WAS ON it,” Eugene said. “Not staying in it.”

  Lee Ann pulled the wool blanket over Mother, tucked the satin edge around her shoulders and pecked her forehead goodnight.

  “Shhhhhh…we can discuss this after she’s settled.”

  “I’m no longer your taxi service to the gate. Drive yourself and leave your car in the turn-around.”

  “Maybe you can talk to him.”

  “It’ll result in a fist fight and you know who’ll come out on top. You want that? You want him beaten to a heap of slop? Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better than to bounce his scrawny hide off the walls of that trailer.” He nodded at Mother. “For her sake, it’s best I keep my distance.”

  In the kitchen, Lee Ann collected Mother’s supper dishes off the table and ran the water.

  Eugene said, “Can’t burn that trailer, bury it or sink it. What I’d like to do is plow into it, but I’d wreck my pickup. Moving it to a repo lot would take time and effort and you can be damn sure I’m not about to do his dirty work for him.”

  “You don’t need to swear. And please, keep your voice down.”

  He slammed his hand on the counter, rattling the plates.

  She turned off the water and sat down. The air buzzed with a high, nerve-shattering frequency sending vibrations from her scalp to her toes.

  “I’ll ask Lyle to have the road crew move it to the county yard,” she said.

  “They’ll have to slap a warning on it first, give him three days.”

  “In that case, I’m sure Walker will have moved it by then.”

  “You’re always sure. One thing I’m sure of is that nothing you’re sure of with Walker ever comes to pass. Your certainty is a means of avoiding the inevitable.”

  “Eugene, sit down. I’m not trying to make things worse.”

  He stayed put. “Well, you do. When the happy carpenter whistles, he’s estimated wrong. That’s you, whistling away, ignoring a nightmare about to happen, denying how much you hate Walker, refusing to take a stand. You’re stuck in your faith, thinking it makes you strong, but it’s like quick-sand, pulling you under.”

  The clock said 8:20. Saul Duran had tampered with a paving bid for the road to second mesa. This week she’d obeyed Harley’s request and “adjusted” the budget for the Supplemental Food Program for Needy Women, Infants, and Children. Her job might well be re-titled Commissioners’ Flunky.

  She scraped a dab of crusty lasagna off the edge of the table, scratching the spot after it flaked off. Lord, Eugene doesn’t understand the power of prayer. Faulting my faith is unfair! He doesn’t see that forgiveness is the way, that changing Walker is Your job.

  She rose to take his hand, but he shook her off and left. Years ago, they’d taken a picnic lunch to San Marcos Lake. After lunch, she’d fallen asleep and woke to find herself alone. The day was warm and she set up a camping chair and passed the afternoon reading No Life For a Lady, recommended by Scott, about a woman’s country life in the last century. Eugene returned in the late afternoon with a bouquet of wild asters, his first of many gifts from nature. During the winter months the gifts continued—mistletoe, a pine bough for the fireplace, a heart-shaped rock, arrowheads, and turquoise beads he discovered when cutting wood. When asked what inspired such offerings, he said, “Pops always treated Mama that way.” She kept a dried flower from each arrangement in a glass bowl on her bureau and the smaller tokens in a cookie tin on her night table, close to her dreams, first reminder of his affection each morning.

  There would be no such offering tonight. She rose and walked to the sink, turned on the tap and moved the sponge over a plate’s surface, round and around, the water getting hotter and hotter. I do feel mired down, Lord.

  16

  THURSDAY OCTOBER 4, 2007

  THE DUDE STOOD 6’ 4”, weighed maybe 220. Walker shook Keith Lampert’s hand, asked if he’d spent a pleasant night, and without waiting for an answer, waved him to a table, apologizing for the lumpy upholstery and Vera’s décor—chicken salt and peppershakers on soiled tablecloths printed with Barred Rocks strutting around fairytale barnyards. Walker faced him away from the Rhode Island Red plaque above the order window that read, “What is Superman’s real identity? Cluck Kent,” and the ticket holder plastered with chicken decals that twirled next to shelves of poultry bric-a-brac.

  Walker studied Keith’s face. If he covered the left side with the menu, the right side would look like a cartoon of the Handsome Man with chiseled lips, smooth skin and a direct, open gaze. Covering that side, the left half would appear tight and mean, as though a cord ran through Keith’s lip and nostril, pulling them up, cutting deep lines across his cheek and over his cheekbone. A heavy brow pressed down over a squinted eye. The right side suggested he might be fifty-five, the left maybe sixty-five. Smiles seemed to be missing from his repertoire of expressions.

  Walker asked for chorizo and eggs smothered in green chile. Keith ordered huevos, scrambled, red on the side.

  “I got a big mouth,” Walker said. “And lots to say. I’ll dominate this conversation in two minutes if I don’t give you a chance to tell me about yourself. Go ahead.”

  Keith picked up a knife, ran his thumb along the serrated edge.

  “Not much to tell,” he said. “My dad and I operated a slaughterhouse on the outskirts of Phoenix. When he died last year, I sold the business and a piece of adjacent property.” He raised his eyes. “I’m wanting out of Phoenix. Too many people. Too much traffic.”

  “A butcher! Man, you’ll make a killing around here come hunting season. The county has no regulations o
n game processing. Anybody can do it. With your skills and reputation, you’ll have all the business you can handle. Work a few months a year, bring in a bundle. As for getting out of Phoenix, I’m hearing that more and more. We’re trying to keep this part of the world a secret, but some of you Arizonans have discovered the cheap prices and low taxes in the spectacular state to your east.”

  Vera set their plates down.

  “I’m not sure about continuing that line of work,” Keith said. He reached for the salt.

  “Sure, you want to retire. Throw your feet up. Get a few chickens, plant some tomatoes and cucumbers, a dozen rows of corn. Once you experience the P and Q, there’ll be no turning back. This is hidden treasure, man. I’m going to drive you around today, introduce you to the country and let me tell you, you’re going to feel privileged to get a piece of it. Because, to tell the truth, there’s not much land available. Less than twenty-five percent of Dax County is privately owned. The rest is public land, managed by the BLM and US Forest Service.” He picked up his fork. Shut. Up. The guy’s stingy with words. Give him an opportunity to relax, ease up, and spill a few details.

  Vera poured more coffee.

  Walker shoved his eggs around his plate, stifling the urge for a cigarette in case Keith agreed with the rest of the world that smoking in restaurants was offensive.

  “I’ve lived here all my life,” Walker said. “A ranchero for all of it. Tried to enlist in my twenties but they wouldn’t take me. Got thrown off a bull when I was sixteen and busted my right eardrum. I guess my left ear is super sharp, ’cause I hear the slightest sounds, even some I’m not supposed to, like two gals whispering about a man’s talents, a mouse in the cat food, thunder a county away.” He shoved his plate aside. “I sure do admire any man that served.”

  Keith swallowed his eggs and gulped his coffee.

  “Nam,” he said.

  So, that was it. The word dated the guy, implied life-altering experiences that worked on a man’s face, forever changing it. The blunt way he stated the word, like a nut cracked against a tabletop, explained one side of his face battling the other. Walker watched him chew, the tight cheek doing the work, doubting the two halves ever lived in harmony.

  They hiked up the mesa through cedar and ponderosa pine and stood above the valley on a flat ledge of granite. Walker pointed.

  “To the south there, that’s Solitaire Peak. Those are aspens setting fire to the eastern slope.” He set his boot heel into the rock and turned a full circle, arms outstretched, palms up. “All this is your playground. That sandstone cliff’s your slide. Your feet’ll roll on fine gravel and you’ll be flat on your ass in a split second, zooming down the slope fast as a rollercoaster with nothin’ to grab onto to break the ride. In the spring, you can play hide and seek along that rim rock, searching for elk antlers disguised as fallen tree limbs. You can dress like Davy Crocket and cut you a stack of firewood, pretend you’re sixteen and poke your girl in that open meadow over there, claim you’re King of the World and hear your voice echo off the walls in Salida Canyon.”

  Keith locked his hands behind his back and inhaled.

  “Yeah, take a breath. Nothing cleaner.” Walker tore a small branch off a juniper tree, crushed it in his hand. “Now, that’s perfume, man. Revlon can’t bottle this. It’s God’s concoction. He ain’t givin’ out the formula, but you can sniff all you want for free all year round. And look down there, between the mesas. See the road crossing the creek as it curves west? That there’s your property. Let’s go.”

  Walker lit a Winston and let it dangle out the window. The wind blew through the cab and beside him Keith took in the land and sky. Lordy, the sun did shine, not a cloud in sight. He gave a few hits on the horn as they passed Shelley sweeping leaves off the store’s porch. That open bottle of JD she kept under the register called out to him, but he whizzed right on by.

  He drove across the creek at Plank’s place super slow.

  “You just missed the red Indian paintbrush, orange yerba negrita, and red and yellow gaillardia that color these fields all summer. Next year you’ll be in for a treat. Sometimes, purple bee weed takes over unused pasture and every year sunflowers damn near blind a person.”

  They parked under the big cottonwood.

  “Tomorrow I’ll loan you my ATV and you can follow the creek, ride the arroyos, and cover most of the territory. If you’re into hunting arrowheads, there’s a big Indian ruin on the southern rim of the west mesa. Now, the house is solid. No one’s lived here for twelve years, so you got to imagine the walls patched and painted. Ross stayed on quite a while after Charlotte died and let things slide. You know how it takes a woman’s touch to warm a place, gingham curtains and the like. I been trapping skunks under the crawl space. That smell should disappear pretty quick. Me, I’d tear the place down and start from scratch, but some folks like the feel of an older home, take comfort in the evidence of family history.”

  The sun had climbed almost overhead. He took the flask from his back pocket. “Might be a little early for you,” he said, unscrewing the lid and extending his hand.

  “I usually wait until four,” Keith said, but took it.

  They walked around back, crunching weeds. The old fence had toppled and any semblance of a tended garden had long vanished. Walker’s ladder leaned against an apple tree still laden with fruit.

  “Pick yourself some.”

  “I’d like to stay on the land a couple of days, if you’ve got a tent I can borrow.”

  “No tent,” Walker said, returning the flask to his pocket. He adjusted the ladder against the tree trunk. “But, I got just the trailer.”

  17

  DEE DUSTED OFF THE CHOP saw.

  “We just moved it over here.”

  Scott removed the screw from between his lips and quit drilling.

  “We can’t help you. These gates have to be finished today.”

  Walker said, “What’s more important? Moving the trailer or postponing roundup one more day? Them cows don’t know the difference.”

  Dee sliced through a two-by-four.

  “Dad’ll throw a fit. Manuel and Rudy are already lined up for Sunday and Monday.”

  Walker picked up the sawed-off end and swung it like a baseball bat, raised his hand to shield his eyes as if he’d hit a home run so far out to right field he lost sight of it.

  “He’s going to blow up one way or the other,” he said, tossing the wood on the scrap pile. “I believe he’ll be more pissed off if that trailer’s still here. But maybe that’s my imagination. Maybe he’ll think, gosh, it’s just fine having that hunk o’ junk blocking the road. Maybe every time he wants to get out of here, he’ll think, well, that’s okay, I’ll wait until tomorrow. Maybe he doesn’t mind the sight of the big ugly thing at all, just looks over it or around it. Hell, maybe he even likes it there, a reminder of how much unexpected joy I bring into his life. Come on. Won’t take but a couple hours to reset the block and hook her back up. Then I’ll help you slap these gates together.”

  Scott laid the drill on the table.

  Dee unplugged the saw.

  A couple of hours turned into five. Dinnertime came and went.

  “Tell you what,” Walker said, after completing the job. “You boys deserve a drink.”

  “No thanks,” Scott said. “You going to help us now, or what?”

  “Or what?” Walker whined. “Course I’m going to help. Said I would, didn’t I?”

  The evening star blinked in a deep purple sky as they pulled the vehicles to a stop in front of the workshop. They opened the doors to find Eugene beside the worktable, facing them.

  Dee mumbled, “We were giving him a hand moving the trailer.”

  “I’m here to make up for lost time,” Walker said. “These gates’ll be ready to swing off their posts by midnight. Guaranteed.”

  The hit to his stomach came fast and hard. Walker buckled forward and another punch caught his jaw, jerking his head to the side. He heard his neck
crack. Had no breath. Dropped to the floor. Eugene stood over him, his voice coming from far away.

  “I’ll break your neck next time. Now, get up and get outta here.”

  Walker rolled on his side and brought his knees to his chest.

  “Pick him up and throw him out.”

  Scott and Dee lifted Walker by the armpits, draped his arms around their necks, dragged him to his truck, and propped him in the seat. Dee headed back to the shop. Scott searched for the Pleiades and greeted the sisters, huddled together in the sparkling universe, waiting for Orion, due in January. When Dee yelled his name, he floated down to earth, tossed Walker’s hat on the seat and placed his dangling hand in his lap. He reached behind the seat and yanked out an old Mexican blanket, spread it over Walker’s chest and tucked it behind his shoulders.

  Ouch. And more ouch. A rib might have snapped like a cracker, his spleen might have ruptured. He slouched behind the wheel, uncertain whether he could steer, if bumping over the gravel road would hurt bad enough to knock him out, if a shot of liquor would cure him or kill him. Most likely cure him. He willed his hand to reach for the ignition. Get me to the bar, baby. His head rolled back and he closed his eyes. Short, quick breaths tickled his nostrils. From time to time he heard the saw tear through a piece of wood, the whir of power drills, the whack of a hammer, laughter and an occasional cough. Thirst drove him to lean forward and turn the key, the humming engine comforting as a lullaby. The blanket crumpled and he pushed it aside. Gingerly, his foot pressed the pedal. Roll on out of here. I-n-c-h across the creek. E-a-s-y does it, up the rise and onto the highway.

  The Jeep was parked in front of number 16. His rat-a-tat went unanswered. He leaned against the wall until the pain in his stomach subsided and labored across the street. Inside the bar, Jo’s red hair glowed like a lantern at the end of a line of unoccupied stools, cigarette smoke rising straight up from the ashtray next to her drink. Art stood across from her, talking low. The same hunters as last night moved between the tables.